Mafia Mafia Short Stories & Cheating Novels

Our story started with a single, reckless night of sin while he was drugged. But I didn't regret it. After that night, I foolishly believed I had claimed his heart. For six years, we were inseparable and became a couple that made the entire underworld envious. However, everything was changed when I overheard him laughing with his capos outside the lounge. "Vincent, when will you put a ring on Lyra’s finger?" My footsteps froze. Then, his voice, still cold and utterly merciless, cut through the door. "She’s nothing but a fuck buddy. How could I marry her?" My heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, violent warning. A suffocating, dead silence fell over the lounge. "When I broke up with my ex, she asked me to try dating other women. If we still have feelings for each other after six years, we’d reunite. We have a deal." His tone was chillingly calm. "My trial is over. It’s time for her to come back." "What about Lyra?" Another capo asked, sounding almost pitying. "I’ll throw her a fake wedding." Vincent replied, a cruel smirk audible in his voice. "Let her have little fantasy. It’s the least I can do before I discard her." A glacial chill seeped into my veins, making my fingertips tremble. Six years of affection…All those moments I thought were real were nothing but a twisted, calculated trial. Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall. I resolutely turned on my heel and walked away into the shadows. By dawn, I booked a one-way flight to Switzerland.

Seven days before my wedding with Giuliano Corleone, the heir of the Corleone family, I find out that I'm pregnant. At that moment, I receive a text from an unknown number. "Mommy, please abort me. I'll get born with crippled legs, meaning I won't be able to stand up for the rest of my life. You and Daddy will keep fighting every day because of me until all of your love is reduced to hate. In the end, you'll get overwhelmed by the pain and get afflicted with severe depression, which will lead to you taking your own life by overdosing on pills. I don't want to see you living in that hell ever again." I immediately head over to the hospital to go through a medically-induced abortion without any hesitation. When Giuliano realizes what I've done, he's furious, to say the least. He yells at me, demands answers from me, and vents all of his rage on me. Finally, he stomps out of the ward and slams the door on me. By the time I return to Giuliano's heavily-guarded estate, I can hear Eva Bianchi's loud, malicious laughter ringing from within. "How is it possible for such foolish women to exist in this world? To think that she actually believed the text came from her child from seven years in the future! "I can't believe that she actually got rid of her unborn baby because of a fabricated text!" With a poker face, Giuliano warns Eva, "I'll let this incident slide. If you dare bully and humiliate Elena again in the future, I will never let you off the hook." I stand outside the closed door, feeling eerily calm. There will never be a next time. I know that the so-called text from the future is fake. But the thing is, I've also gotten reborn from seven years in the future, where I've gotten my heart shattered.

The Vale family was the most powerful mafia syndicate in the New York City. And I—along with a few other carefully chosen girls—had been handpicked to join their ranks, trained from the ground up so that the next head of the family could choose his wife from among us. Wife. That was the kinder word for it. The truth was whoever got picked would become his shield, his weapon, his most loyal protector. Someone who would kill for him. Die for him. Years passed. One by one, the others fell away. In the end, only Elara Quinn and I remained. And then, Elara died—killed on a secret mission. After that, there were no more choices left. I became Adrian Vale’s wife by default. I had given everything to Adrian. And I loved him. I thought he loved me too until I took a bullet to the chest—meant for him. As I lay there, barely breathing, I heard Adrian talking to his assistant, “Don’t bury her in the Vale cemetery. My half is reserved for Elara.” That was it. Elara—who had never even lived long enough to marry him—still had a space carved beside him in death. I? I had taken the hit that should have ended him… and yet I wasn’t even good enough to be buried near him. I slowly closed my eyes. And when I opened them again, I was back on the day the Vale family formally announced Adrian as their new head. The day everything began.

I used to be that girl in the mafia—envied, untouchable. Orlando Leone, the big bad Don everyone feared, had eyes only for me. I took a bullet for him. After that? People whispered I couldn't have kids. He tried to shut them up by knocking me up—ninety-nine tries. Try number ten? His shiny new secretary texted, all confused over a decimal. He bailed on me. By thirty, she crashed his sports car while shopping. Claimed she couldn't park. I was left freezing in a bathtub. He said he loved me, but when it counted, he always picked the girl who played dumb and helpless. That's when it hit me—his love was never really mine. And by the time I disappeared for real, he lost his mind looking. Too bad. Me and that promise? Already buried at sea.

The day before the holiday, I gave the household staff the week off. Agnes was still in the kitchen before she left, packing desserts into a bag while talking to herself with a smile. "Miss Vanessa finally got what she wanted this time. Mr. Moretti even booked that seaside villa in Amalfi." I was texting Vanessa, asking her to come over later to try on the bridesmaid dress. Without thinking much of it, I asked, "Got what?" "The wedding," Agnes said naturally. "Isn't Mr. Moretti taking Miss Vanessa to Italy?" My fingers froze above the screen. Two seconds passed before I looked up at her. "Whose wedding?" The smile on Agnes's face slowly froze. She looked at me as if she had only just realized something was wrong. "You... didn't know?" For a moment, I almost laughed at how absurd it sounded. "Agnes, Luca and I signed the family marriage registry three years ago. Next week is only supposed to be the ceremony." The kitchen fell silent. Agnes opened her mouth, embarrassment spreading across her face. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you knew." She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "A while ago, when I was cleaning the study, I heard Mr. Moretti mention it to his lawyer. He said the marriage registry in your hands was never officially submitted to the family council." My heart sank. Three years ago, Luca had handed that document to me himself. He said the Moretti family was unstable, that we could not announce the marriage yet. Once he entered the inner circle of the Five Families, he would hold a proper wedding. So for all these years, I never pushed him. I even turned against the Castellano family for him. Thinking back now, maybe he had never planned to truly let me through the doors of the Moretti family in the first place.

At one of the exclusive private casino parties, my eyes landed on a diamond tiara. The catch? It was the prize for a high-stakes blackjack game. Luckily, poker happens to be one of my many sins. A girl named Elara—whom I once pitied enough to introduce to Throne, hoping she’d land a job—has now declared she wants the tiara too. Naïve. Probably thought beginner’s luck was a real thing. I figured, fine. Let the cards decide. If I win, I walk away with the tiara. If I lose, I’ll find another way to soothe my pride. Easy enough. Thorne, my ever-watchful husband, leaned in and murmured, “Go easy on her.” I didn’t. I won. Beat the dealer faster than her and won the tiara. That girl cried at the table. Thorne didn’t look impressed for once. He rather seemed... irritated. I thought it was for Elara’s sake. Turns out, it was for mine. A year later, same party, different stakes. The grand prize? My own sex video. While holding Elara in his arms, my husband said to me, voice almost amusing, “Don’t you like winning prizes? Then go on. Win our sex tape back.”

On the day of my coming-of-age ceremony, all three of my fiancés showed up with the worst reports from their family-run businesses. My father had declared that I would marry the one who could bring the greatest benefit to our family. However, all three of them had already fallen for a penniless scholarship girl named Amelia Jones, and none of them wanted me. In my previous life, I kept them close, mentored them, and poured my resources into helping them rise. By the time they had each become powerful men in my family, they repaid me by framing my father, getting him arrested, and making him age more than 10 years overnight. He was dragged to prison. Me? They hired a crew of street thugs to brutalize me, leaving me to die while my private photos spread across the internet. As life slipped away, I heard their sneering voices: "Did you really think we ever liked you? Everything we did was for Amelia." "If you hadn't chained us to your side, we'd have married her long ago, we'd have a house full of kids by now!" "You and your father ruined her future. She couldn't afford college because of you. She had no choice but to jump!" Then I opened my eyes: reborn on the very day of my coming-of-age ceremony. I pulled my father aside, looked him in the eye, and said, "I'm an adult now. Throw them out. Strip them of every business and every asset we gave them." "I'm not choosing any of them. I chose Bruce Sullivan, the Don of the Sullivan family."

I've been married to Elliot Graves, the mafia drug lord in NYC, for the past eight years. But today—on our wedding anniversary—I received a photo of him with my best friend, Lila, celebrating as if they were the ones married. And in her arms was my son, Owen. I stared at the image, then typed out two words in reply. “How perfect.” Half a hour later, Elliot stormed through the front door. His voice thundered through the hallway. “Why do you always have to be so bitchy to Lila?” Owen, my own little boy, shoved at my leg and glared. “Bad Momma,” he said. “I wish Miss Lila was my real mommy.” I didn’t flinch. I simply walked over to the drawer, pulled out the crisp stack of papers I’d long prepared, and dropped them on the table with a quiet finality. “Alright,” I said, my voice calm. “It’s all my fault. Now, can I go?”

I married Don Alessandro in secret. The Five Families of Chicago had ruled for generations. And I had married into the most powerful of them. For four years, Alessandro made me promises. One hundred and twelve times. And one hundred and twelve times, he left me standing alone. The first time, his ex‑girlfriend’s father had a heart attack. Alessandro canceled the wedding and stayed with her for three full weeks. The second time, she crashed her Maserati into a fountain in Monaco. Drunk. He flew there overnight and paid off the police chief personally. Every time, right before our wedding, she manufactured another crisis. I begged. I screamed. I put a knife to my own wrist. Alessandro just laughed, pulled the blade from my hand, and fucked me against the nearest wall. “She’s my ex‑girlfriend. You’re my wife. You don't need to be jealous of her.” After the one hundred and twelfth time, I stopped feeling anything. I pushed a piece of agreement in front of him.“Our marriage. Our alliance. Consider it terminated.”

At our engagement party, my fiancé, James Pierce, and my best friend, Rachel Bellini, slipped into Italian again. Years ago, the two of them had gone off to college in Milan together, leaving me to study alone in America. Right before our engagement speeches, James leaned close to Rachel's ear and murmured in low, husky Italian, "If you were the one standing here beside me today, I'd be so much happier." I turned to stare at him in disbelief, every ounce of joy draining out of me in an instant. But James just smiled at me, all innocence, and switched to English. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Nerves getting to you?" I had lost count of how many times James and Rachel had talked in Italian right in front of my face. At dinner, they critiqued the dishes in Italian. At the movies, they joked about the plot in Italian. Over afternoon tea, they traded old stories and private jokes in Italian, things only the two of them understood. I had protested. We had even fought about it. But James would only say impatiently, "Isabella, this is how we lived for four years of college. Can you stop making a scene over nothing? If you can't understand Italian, go learn it yourself!" Rachel glanced at me, smothered a laugh, and went on in Italian, "Look at that shocked little face. She clearly has no idea how hard you went at it with me the night before your engagement party." James answered with utter contempt and absolute certainty. "So what if she found out? You think she could survive without me?" The note card with my speech slipped from my fingers and landed without a sound, but the weight of it hit me like a blow to the chest. They had no idea. My father is Italian. I was born in Italy. After my parents divorced, I moved to America with my mother, Eleanor Bennett, when I was ten. I understood every word they said in Italian.

To the world, I was Mrs. Ward—the untouchable queen beside the mafia king of New York, Elias Ward. But I knew my husband never loved me. His heart had always belonged to Harper Dinah. His nephew’s wife. And after that nephew conveniently died, Elias brought her into our mansion, “I just want to take better care of her,” he’d said. And his version of “care” was where he’d throw a man out of a party for daring to flirt with Harper and got her pregnant. Elias likes to praise me in public like I was the perfect wife to him. And I was. I helped build his empire. I was the one who smiled and played nice. I made his casino shine while he hid Harper away like she was something sacred. Because of all that praising, one of his enemies set his sights on me. They took me. Sent Elias a message soaked in blood and threats: Back off. Leave New York. Or your pretty wife dies. Of course, Elias didn’t choose to back off.. “Just wait,” he said over the phone, “They won’t hurt you, Noa. You’re leverage. Just hold on until Harper gives birth. Then I’ll come for you.” Eight months of being held in a filthy hole, starved, beaten, degraded. The gang leader raped me over and over again. And still, Elias never came. Finally, I escaped when they were all drunk. Went home, only find my twins sleeping in the maid’s room, eating scraps while Elias was too busy hosting a party for his newborn. I didn’t confront him, just packed my babies and disappear.

At my engagement ceremony, I wait for Elio Ricci to slip his family's ring onto my finger. It's the ring that will officially mark me as his Donna. Instead, in front of everyone, he takes his widowed sister-in-law Marianne Fabbri's hand and places the ring on hers. I stand there frozen. Elio barely reacts. "My brother is dead, but Marianne still needs to give the family an heir who carries our blood. Stella, just be patient a little longer. Once the baby is born, I'll make you my Donna." Everyone expects me to smile and accept it. After all, I've spent five years at Elio's side. I've swallowed every slight and endured every test just to finally earn his family's approval. What no one expects is for me to turn around, call my father, and accept the marriage alliance my family arranged for me years ago. I reclaim my family name that very night. Then I leave the city without looking back and marry the head of the most powerful crime family in North Amrea. Four years later, I return. My husband, Renato Costa, tells me he's sending someone to meet me at the harbor. I never expect that someone to be Elio. The moment he sees me, his gaze drops to the ruby ring on my finger. "Four years, and you're still obsessed with climbing your way into a better family." Elio lets out a mocking laugh. "The head of the Costa family paid five million dollars for that ring at an auction. And you actually went out and bought yourself a fake? You really haven't changed." He gestures toward the car waiting by the curb. "You've had four years to throw your little tantrum. I'd say that's long enough. Your timing is good, though. Marianne and I have a son now, and he could use a nanny." I casually sweep my curls back over my shoulder, letting my fingertips brush across the ruby. There's no reason to tell him the truth. To Renato, this ring isn't some priceless treasure. It's just another little trinket my husband buys on a whim because he thinks it'll make me smile.

Everyone in the Falcone family believed that Enzo, their Don, treated me exceptionally well. Whether it was money, jewelry, or anything else I wanted, Enzo was never stingy with me. But only I knew that as long as Emily was around, I would never be his first choice. Whenever he failed to be there for me, he would make it up with money, while giving his time and attention to Emily instead. Three days before our wedding, he forgot that he was supposed to accompany me to my bridal fitting because he was too busy rushing off to be with Emily. We had met in Sardinia, and he had once promised to give me the grandest wedding there. Yet just to comfort Emily, he changed the wedding venue without hesitation. To keep Emily safe, he even brought her into our home, despite the fact that I was about to become his bride. That was when I knew that Enzo and I were truly over. This time, I didn't argue with him again. I simply canceled my own wedding plans and booked a flight out of the country. Because when that wedding took place, I would not be the bride.

My husband’s company went bankrupt, and his creditors quickly came over to threaten him. Then, of course, they asked me for the money. Milo Cardilo, my husband, was worried that they would hurt me, so he shielded me and said while crying, “Stella, the company owes ten million dollars. Let’s fake a divorce and split our assets. That way, I won’t drag you down with my debts. Trust me, honey. Once this is settled, we can get married again.” His sincerity and selflessness touched me. When the creditors came to drag him out of his company to beat him up again, I stepped forward. “I’m Stella York, and my father is the Don of the Rosa Family. Let my husband go, and I’ll give you the money.” But when I went downstairs to call my estranged father, I heard my husband talk to his creditors. “Don’t believe her. How could she possibly be the Principessa of the Rosa Family? She must be bluffing to stall for time. Make your act more convincing. Puncture all the fake blood bags I have on me! Once she signs the agreement to walk away with nothing, I’ll pay you ten times the acting fee!” My heart went cold. So, when it was time to sign the divorce agreement, I agreed without hesitation. Milo sighed in relief, but what he did not know was that he was going to pay the price for his deceit.

For our fifth anniversary, I planned to bid on a pink diamond ring. A young woman outbid me. I followed her outside to ask if she would consider selling it to me. She stood at the curb, showing the ring on her hand to the friend who had come with her. "I'm already tired of this one. "So my boyfriend told me to pick out something I liked for our first anniversary." I stopped. She would never part with an anniversary gift. Reese was busy handling the smuggling trade along the coast and could not come with me. He had only said he would not be home for dinner and told me to buy myself something nice to celebrate. When I heard her say her boyfriend had a candlelit dinner waiting for her, I smiled and envied their young love. My car pulled up. As I was about to get in, she turned around. I saw the ring on her hand, the one she was already tired of. My breath caught. Cold shot from the soles of my feet to the base of my skull. It was the ring Reese had given me last year, then discarded because it did not fit.

When my mother went into kidney failure and needed a transplant, it was Pauline Maynard—on the brink of death herself—who gave my mom a second chance at life. Just before Pauline passed, she gripped my hand tightly and whispered her final words. "Summer, Ricky is my only son. He's rebellious… and fragile. Please, take care of him. Just three years, please?" I gave her my word. Then I moved into their home and gave Ricky everything he needed—love, comfort, a sense of safety. For three years, I stayed true to that promise. By the third year, Ricky had transformed. No longer the wayward boy he once was, he rose to become the Mafia Don Ricky Lenza. And I was carrying his child. As I busied myself with wedding plans, I overheard something I was never meant to hear—his voice, low and mocking, as he wrapped another woman in his arms. "Summer? She's just pretending to love me for the sake of my mother's inheritance and a stupid deal. A gold digger like her dreams of marrying me? What a joke." A sharp pain pierced my chest, like thorns stabbing deep beneath the skin. On the way to a prenatal checkup, we were hit in a crash. My baby didn't make it. And my mother, sitting in the passenger seat, shielded me with her life. When I woke up, I stared blankly at the date on my phone. Three days left. That would've marked the end of the three-year promise. I realized then—I'd paid my debt to Pauline in full. It was time for me to go.

My husband is the Don of the entire New York East Coast Mafia. For ten years, I dimmed my own light to be his perfect silent partner, the dutiful wife who gave him the perfect heir. I thought we were the lovers who wou ld die for each other. Then came a mere associat. My husband and son had formed an alliance with the woman who seem want to take my place. But they just said, "Elena, you have the crown and the kingdom. She has nothing but us. Be generous." So, to make her smile, my husband trampled on my dignity again and again. To please her, my son affectionately calls her "Mom." In their eyes, I was the iron wall, the woman who would swallow any insult for the sake of the family honor. Until the fire. My husband locked me inside the burning room, to let me "reflect" on my jealousy. He didn't know that the fire didn't kill me. But it burned away the last ash of my love for him.

My mom, Serena Brunetti, is the most hopelessly lovesick side character in a romance novel. She's the daughter of the Don of the Brunetti family, for crying out loud. But she rejected the match her family arranged and insisted on marrying my dad, John Carter, instead. I call him Trash Dad. He's a freeloader who lives off her money and keeps his first love on the side. The result? Seven miscarriages, all deliberately caused. Yet she's so sweet and clueless that she thinks they happened because her body is too weak. She even feels as if she let Trash Dad down. And me? I'm the poor little soul who tried to be born seven times in a row and never made it out of heaven. On my eighth try, even my angel couldn't stand to watch anymore and personally escorted me into the world. Before leaving, the angel even gave me a max-level Baby Talk buff. I was all set to live my best life, adored and spoiled rotten. Instead, Trash Dad walked up to Mom's hospital bed with a smile, carrying some random baby boy. "You did so well, honey. Look, this is our precious son, the first in line to inherit from your dad." Meanwhile, I'd been stuffed into a filthy biohazard bin, and I was about to be tossed into an incinerator and burned to ash! I panicked and started cursing in my head. Lovesick Mom, wake up! That's Trash Dad's son with his side piece. I'm your real daughter. Come save me! Mom, who had been leaning against Trash Dad and gazing at him like a lovesick puppy, suddenly shivered.

Six years ago, I took a bullet for Dante Romano, the head of one of New York’s most powerful Mafia families. The injury nearly cost me any chance of becoming a mother. At my hospital bedside, Dante swore that as long as I survived, he would never need children. Then, against all odds, I became pregnant. I was about to tell him when I heard a little girl call him Daddy in a voice message on his phone. That was how I discovered Dante had fathered twins with his former secretary, Bianca. Everyone in the Romano family knew about them. Everyone except me. Dante continued to call me the only woman he loved, even as he gave Bianca a ring and prepared her son to inherit the family. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t tell him I was carrying his child. On our wedding anniversary, I staged a yacht explosion and let the world believe Elena Romano—and her unborn baby—had died at sea.

On the night of our ninth wedding anniversary, my husband—Damian Grant, the man who ruled the mafia by day and once ruled my heart by night—did not bring me roses. He gave the bouquet that should have been mine to Serena Lane, his personal assistant. Beneath the chandelier where we once danced on our wedding night, he turned to me with that same cold charm he once used to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. “She's pregnant.” Finally, everything fell into place. “She's a picky eater. From today onward, you’ll cook three meals a day for her. And no repeats. “She’s sensitive and hates sleeping alone, so you’ll need to move your things into the guest room.” The room fell silent. I did not raise my voice, nor did I shed a single tear. I simply picked up my packed suitcase and walked to the door. The butler tried to stop me, but Damian did not even blink. “She’ll come back.” He lazily swirled the wine in his glass. “She’ll come back crying and begging within three days.” Our guests burst out laughing. They placed a million-dollar bet right in front of me. They were betting on whether I would be back before the night was over, begging Damian to let me back in like a pathetic stray dog with my tail between my legs. However, they did not know I had already received the family heirloom from my real father. I booked my flight to get far, far away from everyone I used to know. This time, I really left.